


The Enigma of The Assistant

by bismuthBallistics, Churbooseanon, red_as_ever



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Damsels in Distress, Kidnapping, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bismuthBallistics/pseuds/bismuthBallistics, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_as_ever/pseuds/red_as_ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By daylight he works as a journalist, and by moonlight he's a leading blogger and follower of the tech-slinging vigilante hero The Assistant. And while York has always dreamed of meeting his hero, fate had it that it wouldn't go quite how he'd planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Enigma of The Assistant

**Author's Note:**

> For RVBSJ Main Round 1: Genre Blending.

_In the aftermath all I can do is take stock. Anchor myself in the reality of the now. In how the bedroom is dark, lit only by the backlight of my comm and the warm streetlight glow spilling in through the blinds. They fall over his sleeping form like lines on paper, making him serve as an essay on purity, conviction and nobility._

_After tonight I’m not sure how many of those exist anymore._

_My ceiling fan creaks. It’s always done that. Has since I got here. Will after I’m gone. I used to think leaving would be decades away. Now, seeing what I’ve seen... now it doesn’t seem so distant. We all die. Some sooner than others. For good reasons, or bad._   
  
_I wonder which column I’ll be tallied in. Will I be with him, standing at his side, having accomplished some great feat? Or am I forever doomed to be a product of what led me to this moment, led me to… well…_

_Him._   
  
_It started, I suppose, with the rumors. With my fascination at the idea that a man could be more than simply serving our base needs. Isn’t that all we really do? Eat. Sleep. Breed. The human imperative. And then there are people like him: they become more. And people like me: who tempt them back toward the fall._   
  
_Things might have been easier if I hadn’t been out there, trying to catch a glimpse of The Assistant. So it started with me being too eager, too close._   
  
_Really, though, isn’t that always where stories like this start?_

_Well, there, and outside a tiny cafe between Fifth Street Cyberware and an old-fashioned bookstore..._

 

* * *

 

Coffee in hand, York stepped into the street and checked his datafeed for the fifth time. Something would go down tonight. Enigma’s men had been quiet for almost a week, and any detective worth his salt knew that spelled trouble. Maybe he wasn't a detective, but he was worth his own salt and that of at least two other men. So he checked the feed, sipped his coffee, and waited.

The news didn’t come from his feed, however, but from the alarms blaring down the street. If he had to bet they originated at Bjorndal Pharmaceutical, which stood two blocks away and was the metropolis’s hub for human medical experimentation; a prime target for any supervillain. Especially Enigma: bioterrorist and nemesis of The Assistant.

York gulped down his coffee--no reason to go unprepared--and sprinted toward the clamor. Finally, his big break. He only had to find a vantage point, somewhere safe where he could watch for his hero’s arrival.

But where? Most vehicles had cleared the lot around the arcology. Crowds, too, since everybody but York had fled the scene. Probably a wise choice, given the twisted front doors of the massive building and sparks spitting from their busted mechanisms. Smoke poured from the doors and several high windows, probably the research levels and not residence. If he had imagined running in to assist his hero, well, that idea sounded a lot less safe now. Instead, he hunkered down between a Net news kiosk and an abandoned bicycle to watch.

He waited until his knees grew stiff from crouching and his eyes stung from both the staring and the smoke. Only the occasional flicker of light at a window hinted that anything happened inside. A lesser man might have assumed The Assistant wouldn’t come. York simply adjusted his position, swigging the last of his coffee.

Four figures emerged from the smoke. All wore long coats with overstuffed pockets, the collars pulled up to hide their faces. All held flechette guns. One looked York’s way; he shied back behind the kiosk. Any minute now, Assistant.

The virtucaster’s voice issuing from the kiosk he was hiding behind gave way to the shriek of feedback. York clasped his hands over his ears, nearly deafened. One of the thugs did the same despite the distance. The others clutched their guns tighter. Grimacing, they started to separate to search the area.

The sound stopped as abruptly as it had started. York risked a glance back toward the building.

There, off to his left in the lot, stood The Assistant. The hem of his dark green coat hung still around his thighs, as if he had appeared instead of moving. Its hood shaded his masked face. He stared at the thugs, evaluating, his hand already reaching into the coat for one of his infamous gadgets.

Enigma’s thugs brought their flechettes to bear. He rushed right, pistol spitting blue-white bullets of what York had dubbed electrogel. The foremost man fell stunned.  
  
He’d seen the videos of the Assistant in action on the Net. Sometimes a lucky bystander got into the right place and the video went viral in minutes. York had seen every last one. Paused and played back and forth to endless limits in an attempt to analyze his hero.

None of it compared to how the man moved in person.

Three steps had the green clad vigilante-hero across the lot, rolling over the counter of a food stand. The goons seemed to have truly processed the situation at last and York held his breath as one of the flechette guns belched out a trio of heavy steel balls, razors springing out on all sides, toward the Assistant.   
  
They didn’t find their mark. York held back a cheer as the man whirled, his coat flaring open for a moment and there was a sharp ‘snick’ as the flechette rounds embedded themselves into something. Kevlar lining in the coat. York grinned; he’d known it. Meanwhile the second standing goon dropped his weapon when it sparked, shouting in surprise. The Assistant finished his spin, electrogel pistol coming up again and splattering the man who had shot at the hero with large blue spots that crackled with energy as the man jerked and spasmed before falling to flat on his back. Meanwhile the dropped gun of the second goon exploded in a burst of sparks and metal shards.   
  
The final goon had only watched until this point, and York smiled as the man looked to his companion just as the Assistant finally closed. A jerk of the vigilante’s free arm dropped a metal rod into his free hand, sparking with energy just a second before it slammed into the gut of the still armed man. At the same time the butt of the Assistant’s pistol slammed into the side of the remaining goon’s head.

Just like that it was over. The heo was standing victorious with his heavy coat barely even swaying as he stowed his gear.

The Assistant slowly knelt beside one of the men, his hand slipping into a giant pocket on the front of the coat. He produced a slender tube--of what, York couldn’t tell, not at this distance.

The roar of an engine sounded at the back of the building. The Assistant leapt to his feet. Too late: a hovercar zipped to the corner and away to the east. York caught a glimpse of three men in high-collared coats: more of Enigma’s thugs. The Assistant fired two shots that fizzled on the back of the car, then sprang after them.

York almost shouted for him to wait. Finally, a chance to meet his hero, and a second party of goons had ruined everything.

Sighing, he straightened. There would be other nights, he told himself. Besides, now he had something to blog about--well, to add to his detective’s log online.

A better detective would have noticed the security camera high on the building behind him.

 

* * *

 

The following day, York fled from an entirely different danger when he flopped onto Delta’s desk. “Hide me.”

Delta blinked behind his glasses. “From?”

“YORK!” Niner’s voice shook the windows of the Gulch News Syndicate. York nearly fell off the desk. Thank goodness for Delta. He may be the assistant to the irate chief copy editor, but he wouldn’t give York up.

Right? He gave Delta his best pleading look.

Delta shook his head. “It’s time for my lunch break,” he said. York switched to his Imploring Pout.   
  
“You have a piece due on Sakura Sushi soon, correct?” he asked. “If you would like to join me, we could have lunch there.”

“You just want to eat lunch on the boss’s tab,” York teased.

“Nonsense,” Delta said. “I am more than willing to treat.”

“Sure? Let’s just get out of here before Niner finds me!”

They escaped down the elevator and caught the light rail outside. Delta didn’t need directions: four stops later, he stepped off the train. The platform looked out on a small building with “Sakura Sushi” scrolling above the door in pale pink LEDs.

“Have you been here before?” York asked.

“No,” Delta said. “Just good with directions.” Nevertheless, he led the way down two escalators to the front of the restaurant without so much as a missed step.

At first glance, York found Sakura Sushi rather unremarkable. The airbrushed steel decor was functional but trendy, as was the counter grav that propelled plates of sushi on the conveyor around the room. York headed for the bar instead. He enjoyed watching the chefs prepare food when he could. It not only inspired his own cooking, but gave him something to say in his articles. They sat side by side on tall chairs in front of row after row of ingredients. The protective glass clouded over and holo lights traced out the menu against it.

“I know what I want,” York said, clicking to the “specialty rolls” page and tapping out a double order of Philadelphia rolls.

“You’re joking,” Delta sighed. “You’re a food critic. Shouldn’t you order something authentic?”

York found himself far too amused by the wrinkle of distaste in Delta’s brow. “I’m on my lunch break,” he insisted. “Besides, I can tell a lot about a restaurant by the quality of their Philadelphia rolls.”

“But you don’t put cream cheese in sushi,” Delta spluttered.

“Oh? And what are you getting?”

“I’ll have the sashimi, I think.” He selected three: unagi, tuna, and salmon.

“Look how traditional you are,” York teased. “More than enough for the both of us. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll get some good old-fashioned veggies tempura to start us off.”

“Only you would order deep-fried food in the interest of authenticity,” Delta said. He unfolded his napkin to spread in his lap.

York snapped his chopsticks apart. Time for a subject change. “So, what set off our illustrious copy editor this morning?”

“One of the interns made changes to the default style,” Delta explained. “Threw off the vertical spacing for our entire spread.”

York winced. “Please tell me it wasn’t Caboose.”

“Simmons. Connie had to reprogram the whole thing.” Delta poured soy sauce into a small dish with a marble of wasabi, surprisingly impassive. Not many things fazed him. It made him a good assistant for the temperamental copy editor.

“No wonder Niner was in such a foul mood,” York muttered.

“I understand you didn’t help.” The softness in Delta’s smile betrayed his teasing, though he didn’t look up from his wasabi.

“No.” York sighed. “I put in a story request to Carolina, but Niner intercepted it.”

Delta frowned. “What kind of--” He set down his chopsticks to give York That Look. “You asked to write a vigilante story, didn’t you?”

“I just don’t think Carolina’s policy of never discussing them does any good,” he answered. “People want to read about the vigilantes. Why no public interest stories?”

“I don’t know,” Delta murmured. Before he could say anything else, the chef passed their sushi across the bar. Nice and fast, York noted. He snatched his precious Philadelphia rolls before Delta could send them back.

“I mean, not like I’d have to cut back on reviews,” York said. “I’ve got a ton of practice writing about those guys. Carolina just doesn’t appreciate how easy it would be.”

“Practice?” Delta asked, not looking up from his sashimi.

“Yeah,” York said. “I. Uh. Well, I run the leading blog about The Assistant.”

The sashimi slipped from Delta’s chopsticks, landing in the soy sauce and splashing it across the glass and his bright green button-up.

“You okay?” York asked.

“I--” He set the chopsticks aside. “You startled me.”

“Is it really that shocking?”

“Yes,” Delta said. “And no. York, I had hoped you had more sense than that.”

“What? It’s a side project,” he insisted. “It doesn’t conflict with work, especially since Carolina’s mandate. I can’t get in trouble.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“What, Enigma’s thugs?” York smirked. “Didn’t even see me yesterday. I’m fine.”

Delta scowled, unimpressed. “York. This is serious.”

“So am I! He’s a good man, D, and it’s time this city saw that.”

Delta shook his head. “Perhaps. But you aren’t safe.”

“Don’t worry about me,” York insisted. He plucked the wasabi-infused piece of sashimi up and stuffed it in his mouth. “I’ve got a good head for danger. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

_I saw him today._

_I saw him standing amid the smoke and framed by the ruins of the arcology doors. His face was in shadow, cast down as he looked over the fallen forms of those he would later leave for the police. Not that they ever seem to be able to hold the minions of the Engima for long. Something always happens. The city doesn’t seem to be able to hold the garbage he picks up for us. They disappear like smoke through a screen._

_Why can’t we see that every job calls for the right sort of tool? The police never make a dent in the world of people like Enigma. No, the only hope we have is in the people who stand outside of our normal experience. People like..._  
  
York’s fingers, poised over the glow of the projected keyboard, froze. There was something in the air that was wrong. Something in the way the light from the street lamps seemed dim. Something that just tasted wrong and made his stomach roll. It was like the air is stale with foreboding. This, if he really had to think of a comparison, had to be the moment before the hook of the story. When the streetwise detective--him of course--had a moment like this, they trusted their gut.

He reached for the bat he kept tucked under his desk and the world exploded into light and noise around him.

All he could think in the moment before the men charged into the suddenly lit apartment was that this was the scene he would leave behind. A half finished entry into his log, and a cursor blinking slowly on a pale blue screen.   
  
What a mystery there would be in his wake.   
  
Too bad his hero would never see it.

 

* * *

 

In all his time shadowing The Assistant, York had never stopped to consider what Enigma’s lair might look like. He knew the villain collected cutting-edge medical equipment and had technical skills that rivalled the hero’s; York assumed he had a lab stashed somewhere in the city. He just never bothered to imagine where.

So when York found himself in a lecture hall at the old university, he half expected to still be unconscious. His throbbing head belied that, though, as did the bite of the restraints securing his wrists behind his back. And he had found the auditorium seating uncomfortable as a student. Hadn’t they torn this place down yet? Leaning back, he tested the bonds on his wrists. No luck. He tried to stand, but his legs had been secured as well. He grunted in frustration.

Why had they brought him here? Why use a public institution for his lair, of all places? Questions welled up inside him, bringing panic with them. Why him?

Footsteps on the well-trod linoleum did nothing to calm him. York forced himself to swallow, to breathe, to think about The Assistant instead of Enigma and his cronies. Truth be told, he didn’t know if his hero would save him, if he knew he even existed. But maybe, if York survived this, he would have new information that could help bring Enigma down.

The screens at the front of the hall flared, washing out the orange-limned glow of exterior lights against the window screens. York closed his eyes, blinded. The footsteps slowed; his pounding heartbeat did not.

A shadow came between him and the screens. “You could at least pretend to appreciate my work.” The man’s tenor voice lilted, almost with laughter. York peered at him through his eyelashes. He stood at the computer terminal in the middle of the floor, his back to his prisoner.

“Actually, I find it quite astounding,” York said. “Blinding, even.”

A hum of amusement. “Very well. I’ll turn it down.” The silhouetted figure had thicker shoulders than The Assistant and a shorter coat, the high collar turned up. One hand reached out to tweak the display. The lights dimmed. York found himself staring not at a villainous master plan but at his own blog, his work profile, even screenshots of surveillance footage from Bjorndal and the sushi restaurant.

He swallowed hard. “If you wanted to learn about me, you could’ve asked me out.”

“I suppose. But this is more fun. Besides, you already know all about me. I hoped we could start on equal footing.”

“Enigma,” he guessed.

“Very good. You’re smarter than you look.” He swiped York’s information offscreen. The screen brightened again, though York’s eyes had adjusted enough that he could still see some of it. A few chemical diagrams, some text too small to read. . . and countless pictures of very public places: the Capitol, Charon Industries, the new public shopping center that had become the hub of city commerce.

“So. Have you figured out why you’re here?” Enigma’s voice drew his attention away from the images.

“Your base doesn’t have room for a computer screen this big?”

“No, that’s why I’m here. And for the server size, actually. They left it here when the building closed down.” A progress bar popped up on the screen. Enigma minimized it and turned to York. “You’re here because a mutual acquaintance disapproves of my using mind control and I need something to distract him.”

“You’re crazy if you’ll think he’ll come just for me,” he said.

Enigma levelled a stare at him through his red-lensed glasses. “You have no idea, do you?” he asked.

Wait, what?

“Let me put it to you simply.” Enigma strode toward him. “Tonight, I could have half of a city as my hostages, but they’ll be busy with something else.” He laughed low in his throat. “With you here, I can make do with just one.” His hand teased into York’s hair, and when he tried to pull away, the hand tightened. York winced at the pain and at Enigma’s sudden proximity.

Then the other man’s lips were on his, smooth and forceful and revolting. The hand clutched tighter in his hair, forcing York to open his lips in a grimace.

He bit down. Not fast enough--Enigma had anticipated it and pulled back. He braced himself for a retaliating blow. Part of him didn’t care. Better that than the villain’s taste in his mouth, his breath unbearably close.

Instead, Enigma laughed. “I always said you had good taste in men,” he said, looking not at York but at someone in the seats behind him. That. . . that couldn’t mean what Enigma implied.

Could it?

“Let him go.” He knew that voice--the low growl of The Assistant. He had come. York’s breath caught in his throat.

“Come down and we can discuss it,” Enigma said. His free hand slipped into a pocket. The glow of the screen reflected off of a syringe. “In fact, I insist. And if you would do us all the favor of keeping your hands where I can see them, I won’t suspect you of hacking the network with your subcutaneous computers.”

Before Enigma could pull the cap from the needle, The Assistant sprinted down the stairs. York heard the familiar hiss of the electrogel pistol. Several bullets struck Enigma, and though he stumbled back, they fizzled and faded against his coat. The Assistant leapt from one of the stairs, tackling him away from York.

The Assistant had come for him. He hated himself for sitting, trapped, while his hero grappled with his captor. Biting back desperation, he thrashed against the restraints on his wrists.

They popped loose. The hack, he realized, that Enigma had accused The Assistant of. It hadn’t targeted the computer terminal but the control programs in his restraints. Leaning over, he pried open the hardware that had clamped around his ankles.

Now. How could he help? The terminal pinged as if asking for instructions, but Enigma and The Assistant still brawled off to the right. York could help overpower him. He owed Enigma one.

Speaking of Enigma, he had grabbed The Assistant by the hood and as York watched he tore it and the mask away. Delta’s pale face stared at York through the darkness, green eyes too wide without his glasses to obscure them.

“Delta?” York asked, gaping.

“Run!” he shouted. He thrust his elbow into Enigma’s gut, trying to force the man’s hand out of his hair. York ran to help, not to escape.

Something fell from The Assistant’s coat; he kicked it to York. “Go!” One hand in his hair, he jerked his other wrist and jammed the revealed bar into Enigma’s side. Energy snarled against the shock-resistant coat, but he gritted his teeth and kept pushing. Enigma cried out in pain.

York scrambled for the object. The light of the screens revealed a timepiece display.

A bomb. Oh.

Shouts sounded in the halls leading out of the building: Enigma’s men, rallying to the room. York pressed the button and dropped the instrument on the computer.

Ten seconds.

The Assistant--Delta--broke free of Enigma and sprinted at York. “Window. Go,” he said, panting. When York didn’t move, he grabbed his shoulder to steer him away.

Flechette fire spat from the top of the auditorium. Enigma’s men had made it. Delta positioned himself between them and York without missing a step. Together they ran to the window. Without stopping to consider where they would land, York plunged through screen and glass with Delta by his side.

Tree branches tore at him, slowing the fall but not by much. They landed in the hedge beneath the window, a tangle of limbs and leaves. York couldn’t breathe, wanted to lie there so the henchmen wouldn’t see him, but Delta grabbed his arm to hoist him to his feet. Neither of them had a chance to speak before a sharp crack resounded through the building. Static hummed through the air and Delta’s pistols went dark.

Not a bomb, York realized. An EMP. Suddenly he realized the futility of hiding beneath the window. He tumbled out of the hedge, scrambled to his feet, and let Delta haul him away.

Delta. The Assistant. The man he had followed for months, admiring and pining after, and the man who let him hide at his desk. He had taken York to lunch and he had been oblivious. Unappreciative, even.

And now he slowed Delta down because he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t run with the stitch forming in his side. They had reached a patch of shadow between two buildings; he stumbled to the wall and leaned against it for support, panting. Delta put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Why?” York asked between gasps. “Why me?”

Delta smoothed his shirt with a thumb. “You know why,” he whispered.

York coughed. Swallowed. He did now. Wondered why he hadn’t awhile ago.

“We need to go,” Delta reminded him. “Enigma’s men will be after us soon.”

“We didn’t stop him,” York said.

“I know.”

“He got away. He still has everything he needs to do it again.”

“I know.”

“But we don’t know when he’ll try again, or where, or--”

“York.”

He straightened. When had Delta come that close? He smelled kevlar and leather and singed circuits, rich scents so much more appealing than the taste of Enigma lingering on his tongue.

He could erase that now. Delta didn’t move. Just watched, eyes glimmering in the ambient light, as York closed the distance, pressing their lips together softly. His arm snaked out, wrapped around Delta’s waist, pulling him close as his other hand comes up to cup his face.   
  
How was it even possible, he wondered silently, that a man that loomed so large in his head and heart could feel so small in his arms. So small and soft and welcoming against his lips.   
  
Well, welcoming until Delta finally pulled away. “Later,” he promised. “Come on.”

York took his hand and they ran.

 

* * *

 

_… Really, though, isn’t that always where stories like this start?_

_Well, there, and outside a tiny cafe between Fifth Street Cyberware and an old-fashioned bookstore._

_Also, Sakura Sushi. A good place -- light on the cucumber, fresh fish and fresh avocado. But I digress. This story has two beginnings, and that was the second one._

_From the moment he met my eyes in that small restaurant, I knew he was--_

“You knew no such thing.”

York flinched, his fingers slipping off the keys of his holopad. “You need to make noise when you walk, dude.” He quickly flicked the blog post offscreen. “Break your bad superheroing habits. Are you wearing pants?”

“It’s late, York. Come to bed.”

“Pants, D?”

Delta rolled his eyes, pulling the holopad out from under York’s hands. “Bed, York. And don’t blog about our dates.” He pulled one of York’s hidden drawers out of the wall-- _how had he known where to--wait._

“Dates?”

Delta quirked an amused eyebrow at him and stowed the holopad safely in the drawer. “Come to bed, York.”

York bit his lip, considering. “... In light of previously unknown information, is this a go to sleep, come to bed, or a come to bed, come to bed?”

“Either way you’ll be at my side, so does the specific wording matter?”  
  
York smiled as he pulled the smaller man into his arms for a kiss.   
  
Now that he thought about it, it really didn’t.


End file.
